Heals All Wounds
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: H&W slash. Promptfic. During a fight, Holmes is horribly scarred.  He no longer believes Watson could love him, Watson must convince him otherwise.


Title: Heals All Wounds

Genre: Slash, Angst, Romance

Rating: M (for disturbing imagery and sexual situations)

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Words: 5,284

Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: "_So, something happens to Holmes which leaves him with a facial scar of some sort. Anyway, he is of the belief that Watson doesn't really want him any more because of this, because he couldn't possibly find him attractive now._"

0o0

Time went slowly during the worst of moments, Watson noticed.

When he was on the wrong end of a fight, outnumbered, and Holmes was dazed and hurt was when it truly crawled by in anguished drips. Was it a blow to the head that distracted his usually brilliant companion? Did it even matter any more, after Watson fumbled his sword to have it snatched up by one of the Crimson Gang and used against the man he loved, in one of the worst ways possible.

Not with a quick stab to the heart, but with a cruel slash to Holmes' face, cutting deeply across his fine features, the intent to remind ... and ruin.

Holmes stood there, dripping blood everywhere, silent and shocked. Watson screamed for him and strangled the brute from behind, hardly knowing what he was doing. The sword clattered to the ground, followed by Holmes slowly sinking atop it as the gang ran for their lives, having seen what John Watson was capable of once provoked to this extreme.

Hyperventilating, he called for help and tried to stop the bleeding, holding the torn skin together with his fingers unable to staunch the flow fully without suffocating the man. It wasn't a fatal wound, but Watson shuddered at the white yaw of bone and cartilage revealed, of an eyelid that would never be the same again.

A diagonal slash, taking a part of the upper lip with it and Watson kept screaming for help that was impossibly slow in coming. Time stood still as he cradled Holmes who blinked up at him through the bubbling blood, mouthing words that were either a declaration of love or an apology, Watson would never know which.

Lestrade finally burst through the open door. He cursed loudly at the sight of Holmes, throwing his hat to the ground in anger.

"I need to get him to a proper surgery!" Watson snarled, wishing he could somehow split himself into ten, competent, people. "Clarky!"

The officer responded immediately, thank God, carrying Holmes to the waiting carriage. Together they supported Holmes as the vehicle rattled to hospital, its polished floor sticky with pooling blood. Watson paid no mind - he'd found himself swimming in blood back in the day often enough - but Clarky had to turn aside to vomit, twice, especially when Watson's fingers slipped and the laceration yawned open, revealing muscle and bone.

"Damn it," Watson cursed, his hands too wet with gore to be useful. "Hold on, Holmes. Almost there. The morphine will be first, I swear it."

He gurgled a reply and his body went limp in their arms, making Watson frantic. "Move it!" he screamed to the driver who was already carving cobblestones beneath the wheels.

Slowly ... slowly ... how terribly slowly time seemed to go, but eventually, they arrived. He was able to give Holmes the morphine he needed, was able to stop the bleeding and close the awful wound, with the help of two other surgeons. They argued over the placement of nearly every one of the forty-four stitches it took to close, twenty-four on the inside, an even twenty on the surface. The other doctors took turns after Watson's shaking fingers failed him, breathing a sigh of relief once it was done.

Holmes was bandaged and kept in twilight through drugs. Watson sat by his bed and concentrated on breathing, inhaling in time to Holmes' sluggish pulse, which he held between his fingers, refusing to let go.

It would be all right, he chanted silently. _We will be all right_, he swore, as time ticked by, so very slow.

0o0

On the second day after surgery, the morphine had to be weaned away, leaving Holmes thrashing and moaning as agony sluiced along the extraordinarily sensitive nerves of his face. The pain calmed days later, leaving only an occasional twitch as a reminder of its presence.

Ever the doctor, Watson was more interested in infection, checking for fever every hour. He hadn't bathed or shaved and when Holmes' unbandaged eye finally took him in, his lower lip turned down with what Watson thought might be displeasure.

He kissed Holmes' knuckles in response and brought water to his mouth. "Small sips," he said. "Take your time."

A tip of pink tongue snaked out, feeling at an upper lip that was covered with wrap.

"No," Watson admonished quietly. "Don't touch any of it, especially not with your hands. Forgive me, Holmes, but on this I must insist."

Holmes blinked and shuddered, but obeyed.

"There," Watson breathed. He brushed his fingers lightly through Holmes' unwashed hair. "Well, old boy, we dodged a bullet. He could have just as easily found your heart." _And mine._

But Holmes wasn't listening. His one uncovered eye stared at the ceiling, sightless, as if lost in thought. Watson knew it was awful for him not to be able to speak, not to be able to talk away his fear.

Watson knew better than to try and speak for him. He stayed silent at Holmes' side, holding onto his wrist, pretending to take his pulse. He fought the temptation to administer more morphine and so held on, watching the hours tick by, hoping that one of them might get some sleep.

It was a wish that would go unfulfilled.

0o0

Eventually, the day came to remove the bandages. Watson paced and fretted as a fellow doctor stood to the side, scissors and basin at the ready. "The longer we wait ..." the other doctor began hesitantly.

"I know," Watson snapped, then amended his tone. "You're one-hundred percent right. We don't want a bigger problem than what we started with. Let's get it done."

Holmes watched them, bracing himself against the bed with hands clutched in the sheets. Watson could see he was nervous - bandages become a man's friend after a certain amount of time - but Watson squeezed his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "We'll work slowly, top to bottom. Don't fret. Just think, you'll be able to speak again once we're done," Watson said, hoping that he was telling the truth.

Once the threat of infection had passed, Watson's mind turned to paralysis. The facial nerve, that powerful and most delicate of all nerves, would cause endless grief if damaged. He'd have no idea to what extent it had been affected until the bandages were off, which bothered him most of all.

Watson said a prayer and went to work, carefully taking off the bandages, working them away gently when they stuck. He was very pleased with the forehead and the eyelid had healed better than he expected. Unfortunately the wound got worse as he went - Holmes obviously had tried to pull away from the sword, deepening its trajectory downward.

By the time Watson got to the damaged lip, he was wincing. "Can you speak, Holmes?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Yes," Holmes rasped, staring up into Watson's face, as if trying to read it.

Relief flooded through Watson. The other doctor was delighted. "Good show," he said. "I dare say we've escaped with, what is in essence, a scratch."

Lips pursed, Watson nodded at him. "Yes, but quite a scratch."

"Can I see?" Holmes asked, holding his hand out for the shaving mirror on the nightstand.

Still examining the movement of Holmes' eyes and mouth, Watson handed it to him without thinking. It was too late to take it back when it slipped from Holmes' fingers and fell to the tiled floor, shattering.

Watson jumped as Holmes grabbed his arm and gasped for air. "I ... I ... I'm disfigured. Completely disfigured. How could you say I'm all right?"

The other doctor paled and excused himself as Watson held onto Holmes' shaking arms. "I know it looks bad now, but I'm telling you, it's only a surface wound. It could have been much worse."

Holmes stared into space, breathing hard through his scarred mouth. "No. No ..." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I think you need to leave me alone for a bit."

"Holmes ..."

"Please leave me!"

Watson backed away, his hands held up in what he meant to be a placating gesture. Heart pounding, he went into the hallway and stood by the door, listening as Holmes began to weep - harsh, terrible sobs that never seemed to end.

He'd never heard Holmes cry before. Covering his own eyes with his hand, Watson never wanted to hear it again.

0o0

Holmes self-pity didn't last, much to Watson's relief. Once released from hospital, he entered Baker Street as usual, tossing his coat on the floor, his dark glasses somewhere amid his correspondence and completely ignored Mrs. Hudson's well-wishes, as sweetly as they were given.

Even Gladstone was given a push out of the way with his foot when he toddled over to greet him. Watson sighed, but chalked it up to Holmes' usual bad manners and tried not to think more of it. Being overly considerate only resulted in glares, so Watson made it a point to behave as normally as possible, reading the papers and pouring his own tea, alone, while Holmes brooded beside him, his fingers unable to stop tracing the deep scar on his face.

"There's a showing of the new Puccini piece tonight," Watson said casually, not telling Holmes he had already purchased the tickets as a surprise, a welcome-home gift. "I know you enjoyed the other one we saw. Would you like to go?"

"No."

Abruptly, and Watson frowned. "Why not? It's not very strenuous and if you're nice I might pull out these box tickets I've already ..."

"You can find someone else to go with. Now if you'll excuse me," Holmes said coldly, striding to his room and shutting the door.

Watson stared after him, as the lock clicked shut. His hand curled around the newspaper, crushing it, partly out of worry, partly out of irritation. He knew it was hard on Holmes and yes, the scar was bad, but by God ... the man was _alive_. Alive and not buried with Watson trying to claw his way into the coffin beside him. Damn it, if he was upset, why couldn't he share his grief, instead of turning into an even less-likable version of his former self?

_His former self._ For a moment, Watson thought about what those words implied. Unconsciously, he rubbed at his bad leg, remembering those first few days after the terrible agony had faded, leaving behind nothing but a ravaged, deformed limb.

It seemed so long ago, but now ...

A silent hour passed. Watson limped over to the door and knocked. "Holmes, can we talk?"

The door opened suddenly, revealing a smiling Holmes. "Certainly. I have some client correspondence coming in five minutes, but I suppose you can express whatever puerile effort at comfort you are no doubt formulating at this very moment."

Watson jerked back, as if slapped. "Puerile effort at comfort?"

With an airy gesture, Holmes took his chair. Picked up his violin bow and began to scrape it across the strings in a nonsensical manner. "Let's be honest, Watson. You are driven by a dashing, if childish, brand of nobility that rarely allows you to express yourself in any but the most commonplace manner. Everything, in your limited world view, is but something to be seen the golden light of optimism, a world of 'at least''s and 'it could be worse's" Holmes shrugged and tossed the bow aside. "Almost everything you believe is rubbish, really, but I've lived with it this long, I suppose I can tolerate a little more. Go on. Tell me how lucky I am."

Watson blinked at him, his pulse pounding furiously in his throat. "I know you don't mean that." He inhaled shakily and kneeled down in front of Holmes, taking his hand. "My dearest ..."

With a grimace, Holmes plucked his hand away. "Now that we are in a confessional mode, I also believe we should have a conversation about ... this." He looked away, his cheek twitching, the long red scar shivering.

"What do you mean?"

"This. Us. This ... depraved and illegal affair of ours. I ... I think it should end."

The world tilted and went momentarily white around Watson. He steadied himself on the chair's arm. "You're lying," he ground out, shaking, shock like fire along his skin. "Look me in the eyes and say that, if you can."

Holmes continued to stare at the wall, when the bell downstairs rang. "Alas, the correspondence is here. We'll have to continue this some other time," he said. He was paler than usual, making the great scar stand out even redder in relief, Watson noticed, watching numbly as he snatched the letter from Mrs. Hudson's hand with a curt 'thank you'.

Silently, Holmes buried himself in the note, ignoring Watson completely. He stood stock still in the middle of the sitting room, staring at Holmes, eyes burning, his throat tight enough to make him feel as if he were choking. Every stitch he'd sewn into Holmes' skin stood out, a mark of pain and Watson wondered that perhaps he should be hated - for not being fast enough, not being neat enough ...

Not being good enough.

With a rattling breath, he grabbed his cane and made his way downstairs, heading out into the fading sunlight. It was late spring, threatening rain and his leg hurt like the devil, but nowhere near as badly as his heart.

_End it. I think it should end_. Holmes hated him and wanted to end it because of course, this disaster was completely his fault. Why, it was his very own sword that did it, it had destroyed Holmes. Even though it had been by the hand of another, what did that matter?

_Depraved and illegal._

Perhaps there were other things as well, long before this and Watson gasped in sudden surprise. Was there more? What had he missed? But no, they'd been intimate and happier than ever just before this ... or had Holmes hidden something important from him again?

Such as the belief that it ... that _they_ should end.

In pain, he clutched at his hurting shoulder, grimacing. People stared at him as they walked past, making him cringe. What an embarrassment he was, out here, acting like a madman in the middle of the street. But where could he hide? He couldn't face Holmes again, not tonight and there were so few place for someone like him. His club was out of the question, he had no friends ...

Like a siren, a card den called from across the street. He felt in his pockets and yes, there was money there, notes he'd been unable to hand to Holmes during his time in hospital. A lot of money and the familiar sense of excitement that blotted out all rational - and irrational - thought filled him. Such a sick, thrilling burn in the pit of his stomach and he hurried across the street as rain started falling, forgetting everything else in his haste.

A glass of whisky was pressed into his hand by a comely young woman and he drank it in a gulp, tossing a shilling on her tray. She laughed and gave him another, as it was in the house's interest to have him not be at his best. He drained that one too, enjoying the numb heat that warmed him, head to foot, making his head swim pleasantly.

He nodded to the other players and shucking off his greatcoat, he took his place at the table, waiting for the cards to be dealt. Lucky at love, unlucky at cards and if that held true ...

His luck was going to change this night.

0o0

The sun rose with its usual brutality. Watson's eyes were closed, but he was awake, head aching ... mouth dry. The settee was about as comfortable as ever, which wasn't very, but as Holmes' door was locked for the night, he had no choice. Yes, there was his own room but he'd be damned if he'd be banished there while there was a closer option.

Pathetic, maybe, but he didn't stir, not even when Holmes crept up close enough to touch. Trying to watch him while he 'slept', but he'd made a mistake this time.

With a quick hand, Watson curled his fingers into Holmes' shirt and yanked him forward until they were almost nose to nose. "Good morning," he growled, watching the color drain from Holmes' face. "Enjoying yourself?"

"I should ask you the same question," Holmes replied testily, pulling back, looking relieved when Watson let him go without a fight. "So, how did last night go? I see from the mud on your shoes that you've been visiting one of your old haunts. How much did you lose, John? Half the rent or all of it?"

Vicious, breathless voice and Watson couldn't help the cold grin that spread over his lips. He reached into his pocket and tossed out a large parcel of notes. They fluttered to the carpet at Holmes' feet. "I won." There was no triumph in his voice. He couldn't quite manage it, but Holmes blanched in a most satisfying way nonetheless. "Three hundred pounds. Enough to move out of here and into rooms of my own, comfortably enough."

Holmes stumbled back, but recovered himself in the blink of an eye. Except that the eye that was watching him was Watson's and he'd seen enough. "So, I hear you no longer wish to be associated with me," Watson rasped. "I have to say you've surprised me again, Holmes."

"That's not quite true," Holmes said, his voice wavering. He sat down hard in his chair. "I no longer wish to be ... intimate ... with you."

"Really? And why is that?" Watson asked bitterly. There were still a few drams of whisky coursing through his blood, giving him an atypical courage. "Because I couldn't save you from your injury? I tried, Holmes. God knows I did." He sat up, the room spinning, but he pressed on. "Or are you tired of me, finally? No more mystery to be had here, I suppose. Tell me, has familiarity finally bred the ultimate contempt, my _friend_?"

The last word, so full of sharp sarcasm and Watson thought he'd be glad to see Holmes wince as he said it, but there was something else there, something he didn't quite understand. Until ...

Holmes met his gaze straight on, his injured eyelid drooping. "I don't want to be intimate with you any more because I don't want to be the object of your pity. To see you close your eyes and pretend I am someone else. Someone who isn't as ..." Holmes hesitated, his deeply scarred mouth pinched with distress. "Deformed as I am now. I can't bear to see you lie, John. You ... don't do it very well."

Watson's mouth dropped open. "Holmes ..." he whispered, feeling as if the floor was falling out from beneath him.

But Holmes only shook his head violently. "You should leave. By all means. I'm glad for this bit of odd luck. It makes me only more sure of the course I've decided on."

"No," Watson said frantically, suddenly cursing his lack of sobriety. The words stuck in his mouth, his tongue felt thick and damn it, why did this have to happen now?

"I love you, John," Holmes said, rising shakily. "I love you enough to give you your freedom. You should take it."

A quick embrace, a hummingbird kiss to the top of Watson's head and Holmes was down the stairs, gone. Watson wavered to his feet to chase him, tripping and falling among the money he'd thrown at Holmes. Damn this to hell, he thought miserably, his head feeling as if splitting in half.

He lay there for a long time, grimacing in sunlight that had no pity for men, foolish or wise.

0o0

When Holmes didn't want to be found, it was useless to think he could be. Watson knew this, understood he simply had to wait for his arrival back home, as frustrating as it was. He concentrated instead on sobering up with copious amounts of hot tea and gathering his winnings. He placed them on Holmes' desk, firmly held beneath the heaviest bookend he could find.

The message there would be unmistakable, at least.

A hot bath helped, washing away the smells of the previous evening. Watson took a few minutes to peer into the bathroom's looking glass, the scars on his shoulder shiny and obvious even though the steamy fog.

He touched them, remembering.

Night fell and it wasn't until the clock struck nine that he heard the downstairs' lock click open. The footfalls on the stairs were heavy and slow, but he merely stood there in his dressing gown, hoping against hope he could get it right this time.

Holmes was disheveled and his hat was pulled down low over his face to obscure it. He sighed tiredly when he saw Watson waiting for him. "I don't suppose I can delay this conversation you are so intent on having," he said.

"No. But I'll be glad to do the talking. All I ask is that you look at me."

Holmes grimaced, but obeyed, pulling off his hat defiantly and looking Watson directly in the eyes. The scar was terrible and raw against his white skin. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes." Watson took a deep breath and disrobed. There was nothing underneath. "I also need you to remember something."

Holmes flushed with surprise at Watson's sudden and uncharacteristic nudity, but nodded.

"When we were first intimate, I was very hesitant to let you see me like this. I never wanted to have the lights on, never wanted to allow the daylight to reveal this ..." Watson touched a hand to his shoulder, then to his ravaged leg. "Or this. No, Holmes, don't look away. I want you to see this and remember what you told me, repeatedly. How the measure of my worth was bound up in what lay beneath and that worth was greater than the sum of any amount of scarring. Remember the night when you held me down and showed me how little my disfigurement mattered to you? I do, in fact, it's one of the most precious experiences of my life."

Holmes shifted uncomfortably, as if to say something dismissive, but, thankfully, he remained silent.

"And yes, I understand that I can cover what's happened to me with clothing, and that you will never able to pretend that your scar doesn't exist but as far as my love and attraction to you goes ... Really, Holmes, do you think me so shallow and ignorant of my own struggles, ones that you helped me to overcome, that I'd love you - want you - less? I fell in love with a man, not a face. Beauty fades, with or without scars, but love is based on something greater that can't be destroyed, unless you throw it away, as we almost did last night."

Taking a chance, he walked up to Holmes and cupped his cheek. "I love you and want you now as much as ever. To think differently is, as you might say, foolish pessimism."

Holmes flinched, but didn't pull away. "I understand what you're saying, but truly, I don't see how it's possible."

"It's not only possible," Watson said, leaning in and gently, very gently, pressing his lips to Holmes' damaged ones. "It's true."

Holmes stiffened in his arms but Watson was relentless, refusing to let him go until he relaxed in Watson's embrace, his body shaking. With some careful maneuvering they ended up in Holmes' bedroom, the bedsprings squeaking beneath their combined weight.

Watson peppered him with soft kisses; to Holmes' cheeks, his eyes, his trembling mouth. Kisses that said _I love you_ and _you're beautiful in every way_, licks over warm lips that spelled out nothing but sheer desire. He mouthed Holmes' jaw where the marring was the deepest, remembering how Holmes' mouth once traveled over his thigh in a similar manner, lustful and loving.

He kept doing it until Holmes stopped cringing, until his breaths shortened with arousal instead of fear. Tentative fingers wound themselves over Watson's biceps, stroking up his shoulders, petting his hair. He groaned his approval and thrust down against Holmes' answering erection with a grateful sigh.

Holmes' clothes were damp, speaking of wandering in the rain and Watson tore them off, throwing them aside without care. Holmes' eyes sparkled a little at that and he raised his lips hesitantly, running his fingers over Watson's wounded shoulder. Watson answered with a claiming kiss, thrusting his tongue inside Holmes' mouth, murmuring filthy, adoring things against his teeth.

He encouraged Holmes to take charge, to roll Watson over and pin his wrists over his head, to rasp _mine_ into his ear, again and again. "I want ... " Holmes gasped, burying his face in the crook of Watson's neck. "I want to do what we ... God ... what we did before. Before _this_."

Watson arched lazily, licking at the sweat gathering on Holmes neck. "What was that? Tell me."

"With the mirror," Holmes ground out. "I want to take you and see you."

"Are you sure?" Watson asked, but he was already being propelled to the vanity and bent over the chair, his legs nudged apart. The preparation was slippery and warm. Heated fingers entered him without preamble, with a thick cock following. Watson gasped at the welcome burn and watched as Holmes buried his face against his neck, pumping from behind. "Do you want me to close my eyes?" Watson whispered in gasps. "So you can watch?"

Holmes nodded shakily, his thrust faltering. "Just ..."

"It's all right. Whatever you want."

"No ... wait," Holmes said in a shuddery voice. "Watch with me. Please."

"Mmmm," Watson replied and did as he asked, smiling at Holmes' reflection, moaning his appreciation. Holmes face shone with perspiration, his eyes with love and desire. _I love you_, Watson mouthed at the mirror.

Holmes nodded, reaching between Watson's legs and stroking him in time to his thrusts.

Without thinking, Watson reached behind and pulled Holmes' head down to his scarred shoulder, encouraging him to bite at it, which he did, teeth scraping over ruined flesh with all the fervor of a starving man. Scar met scar, and Watson pressed his forehead to the cool mirror, fogging it with his breath as the hot knot of orgasm gathered at his spine.

Eyes met in the mirror and Watson thought he'd never seen anything as beautiful as Holmes when he came, flushed bright, the scar barely visible now, gorgeous mouth wide and wondering at the sensation.

There was no holding back after that. It was a long few minutes spent then, trying to catch their breath, Holmes' deep chuckles vibrating against Watson's slick skin. He felt sweaty and sticky and impossibly wonderful.

Getting back to the bed was another chore, but they helped each other. Holmes laughed when Watson stepped on something he'd left on the floor and cursed roundly. "Such language," Holmes reprimanded, yelping when Watson smacked his bare ass. "Promises, promises."

Watson kissed him again and twined their legs together almost uncomfortably tight, possessive as a man might be over a treasure almost lost.

0o0

The phenol peel was an experimental treatment, used only a few times in the past year but Holmes was enthusiastic about undergoing it, as much for the scientific aspect as the results themselves.

"It's painful," Watson warned. "Extreme application of carbolic acid and there are no ..."

"Just do it, dear," Holmes said, settling into Watson's surgery with a relaxed grin. They'd already spent the last months trying out different natural methods to reduce the visibility of the scars, with some success. An African plant, the aloe vera, now grew on Mrs. Hudson's windowsill, the juice inside massaged into the scar every day by Watson, with fingers as gentle as a summer breeze. Various other oils were used sporadically and Watson yelled at him every time he stepped outside for even a minute without his hat, warning him that the sun would just make it worse.

It wasn't until the following winter Watson noticed the use of a chemical peel in the treatment of scars detailed in one of his medical journals. Still, he was hesitant. There was a fine line between a good burn and a bad one and to simply even out the surface on Holmes' face would take a delicate touch. He decided he would try it first on himself, on his shoulder and take it from there.

It wasn't perfect, but there was a definite improvement. The skin was noticeably smoother, softer, the hard edges burned away but by Jove, it hurt for at least a week afterwards. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like applied to the face, but they were about to find out. "Last chance to say 'stop'," Watson warned, readying the application.

Holmes chuckled. "Not for all the sweet clucking of my Mother Hen."

Watson frowned at him, but went to work, administering enough morphine to take away the initial sting. He concentrated on the chin and mouth area, where the disfigurement was the worst. He timed it to the minute and immediately applied copious amounts of the neutralizing cream, clearing the acid away meticulously. Wrapped Holmes up as well as possible and waited for him to come out from his narcotic haze.

"Ow," was his first word.

"Warned you," Watson replied, relieved that he wasn't screaming. "All you get from here is a tincture or two. No self-medication."

"Ow," Holmes repeated, but remained obedient until the bandages were ready to be removed, a week later.

Watson sighed as he readied the scissors. How earnestly he'd prayed that Holmes wouldn't get his hopes up too high, that his disappointment wouldn't be too great.

But Holmes had just as earnestly worked to dispel his fears. "I already have my miracle," he swore, reeling in Watson for a clumsy, bandage-laden kiss. "This is mostly curiosity, I swear."

"All right," Watson said, unwinding the swathes. "If we could ... oh." He paused and looked. It was better. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but that raw edge that took the disfigurement from unfortunate to ghastly was erased. "My dearest, look. This has worked quite well."

Holmes peered into the mirror with an appraising eye. "Hah! This is wonderful work, Doctor. You should be proud. Now, let's get to the photographer I've hired and you can use the pictures for your piece in the next medical journal, which will no doubt be a boon to others in similar predicaments."

"I'm writing a piece for a medical journal?" Watson asked, amused and unabashedly elated. "How is it I can never remember deciding on these things?"

"You're a busy man," Holmes replied, putting aside the mirror and pulling Watson down for a proper kiss. And another. "About to get busier, as you might deduce."

"I might," Watson said and there was no talk after that, not for a long, long time.

0o0

end

**Comments are always welcome. Thanks for reading. **


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